Ode
to Himself
by Ben
Jonson
|
| Where dost thou careless
lie, |
| Buried in ease
and sloth? |
| Knowledge that sleeps doth
die; |
| And this security, |
| It is the
common moth, |
That eats on wits, and arts and
oft destroys them both.
|
| Are all the Aonian springs |
| Dried up? lies
Thespia waste? |
| Doth Clarius' harp want
strings, |
| That not a nymph now
sings? |
| Or droop they
as disgraced, |
To see their seats and bowers by
chattering pies defaced?
|
| If hence thy silence be, |
| As 'tis too
just a cause, |
| Let this thought quicken
thee: |
| Minds that are great and
free |
| Should not on
fortune pause, |
'Tis crown enough to virtue
still, her own applause.
|
| What though the greedy fry |
| Be taken with
false baits |
| Of worded balladry |
| And thinks it poesy? |
| They die with
their conceits, |
And only piteous scorn upon their
folly waits.
|
| Then take in hand thy
lyre, |
| Strike in thy
proper strain; |
| With Japhet's line, aspire |
| Sol's chariot for new
fire, |
| To give the
world again: |
Who aided him will thee, the
issue of Jove's brain.
|
| And since our dainty age |
| Cannot endure
reproof, |
| Make not thyself a page |
| To that strumpet the
Stage, |
| But sing high
and aloof, |
Safe from the wolf's black jaw,
and the dull ass's hoof.
|
| Ben Jonson | Classic
Poems
|
| |
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[ Ode to Himself ] [ To Celia ] |
